


Brock's Jacket

by tsv



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Angst, M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 04:06:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8235517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsv/pseuds/tsv
Summary: Rusty packs up what's left of Brock's belongings, and reminisces.





	

**Author's Note:**

> More Brusty angst. That's about all there is to say.

When Brock quits, he leaves behind several things.

A powerful sense of absence. A hole in their home, in their _family_ , as big as the man himself. The feeling that something has been lost, some great protection they'd taken for granted.

He also leaves behind two broken-hearted young boys, and a scar on whatever cold, bitter little thing passes for Dr. Venture's heart, not that he'd ever admit it.

Then there's the material possessions. His room, his wrist communicator, both of which are promptly reclaimed by Sergeant Hatred. A number of personal artifacts, carefully packed up and painstakingly stored away for someone who might never retrieve them.

Rusty insists on doing it all himself, no matter how much work it is — he can't trust Hank, Dean, or even Hatred not to nick some possession for themselves, whether out of sentimental value or greed.

The photos around the house, too. The boys object at first, but Rusty pointedly insists on taking down anything with Brock in it, at least for a little while.

"If he's going to have some crazy life out there doing god knows what without us, then we'll just have to start over, too. _Without_ him."

Rusty surveys the neatly taped boxes, after the majority of it has been taken care of. It all feels so small — the Zeppelin records and mementos, the letters, the tenderly preserved photos, the outdated spy equipment that Brock had never seen fit to use no matter how many times it was issued to him. And he wonders, _is this really it?_ Is this all that's left of the man he'd spent nearly two decades of his life with?

The cold nausea itching at the back of his throat feels entirely too familiar. All of it does, because he realizes he already went through this once before — with his late father's belongings.

"It's not like he's dead," Rusty grumbles bitterly to no-one in particular, pushing a box into the corner with the weight of his foot, a little more forcefully than needed. "He's just — _gone._ "

_And probably not coming back._

Brock leaves behind a lot of clothes, so Rusty saves those for last — t-shirts, jeans all the same brand and size, khakis and polos, to name a few. Socks, folded with uncharacteristic neatness. A few ugly sweaters reserved for colder weather. A tuxedo in the back of the closet, rarely used.

Everything is folded up and placed in a box like the rest. The nausea continues to itch. And as he lays a tidy square of black t-shirt over bright blue denim, it feels like he's carefully packing away the memory of him, piece by piece.

Then there's the rumpled coats for various occasions. Most notably, the one that Hank has seemingly refused to take off since he first found it, that desperately needs laundering.

Rusty supposes he can't blame him, and stopped trying to scold him for it after the first week or two. The boy misses him. Of course he'd wear that stupid jacket, if it made his absence hurt less—

He pauses with one of Brock's jackets in his hands, mid-fold. Faded brown leather, tan buttons, a little stain by the collar that's probably blood. His thumb hesitates on the cuff, tracing the seam, straightening the creases.

It's familiar, tickling the corners of his mind. _He wore this when we went to Finland,_ he decides, after a moment. Or maybe it was Siberia? Somewhere cold in Europe, chasing some missing relic that belonged to some emperor. He recalls the way the leather contoured to his square shoulders as if it'd been tailored explicitly for them, how cozy it looked in the snow, how cozy it looks now.

He puts it on.

_This is stupid,_ Rusty tells himself. But he puts it on, slipping his arms into each sleeve and pulling it around his thin frame.

He's practically swimming in fabric — Brock has always been a few sizes larger than Rusty could ever hope to be. But it's _nice_. It still smells like him, somehow, cigarette smoke and body wash. The scent brings back memories.

More than anything, Brock has left behind memories.

Siberia, he remembers — a small cabin with no functioning heater, caught in a blizzard, huddling up against Brock's chest out of necessity on an ill-sized bed. He remembers the scent of cigarette smoke and body wash, and warm fingers on the small of his back.

And he pretends, for a fleeting, pleasant moment, that the leather pressing into his back is Brock's embrace. He even lets himself admit, if only for a second, that throughout all of this he has missed the man more than _anyone_.

All the while, he tries to ignore the thought: how would Brock feel, seeing him like this? Would it be anger? Disgust? Pity? All three?

He takes the jacket off, folds it with fingers that are only slightly trembling, and places it in the box with the others.

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider leaving a comment or kudos if you enjoy reading my work, they mean a lot!


End file.
